The Hound Called Sirius
by OrigamiCake
Summary: Sirius manages to land himself in Dartmoor after falling through the veil. Warnings for character death (?)
1. Arrival

It all started with Baskervilles and its damned hound.

Sherlock had seen the dog get shot dead. So, logically, there should be no hound stalking the moors of Dartmoor anymore. Especially since the hound was really the H.O.U.N.D. and not an actual, massive hound.

Everything was solved and done, so they could go home and John could blog it.

Except…

"John, do you see that?"

One last time, looking over the field as the sun set, Sherlock gazed into the near distance. He was free of the drug already, he was absolutely certain. The next train was an hour away and he had wanted to come here if only to bask in his triumph. John, of course, indulged him.

"See what, Sherlock?" The ex-army doctor asked from his position at the bottom of the rock Sherlock had perched himself on.

"That, John, that," came the slightly frustrated response. The consulting detective stretched out an arm at the middle of the moor and John, obligingly, looked through his binoculars. "The dog's dead, the drug shouldn't have such an effect anymore even if it's in our systems, so what is _that_!" Sherlock's voice had gone to that tone he used when he was thinking hard but couldn't seem to get to a conclusion immediately, and for good reason.

John's breath hitched as his eyes alighted on a large, black mass in the middle of the moor. A dog, one who's size couldn't be determined from such a distance, but a dog nonetheless. A black, shaggy dog which, as it turned, bared its teeth, eyes gleaming red in the setting sun.

The Hound of Baskerville.

It turned and John heard a thump. His head snapped around to see Sherlock running off (again) towards the direction the dog was in.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" John called out to his friend.

"To catch that bloody dog, John!" Came the answer and John could've sworn he heard a quaver in the detective's voice. John sighed. Sherlock was being irrational. He must be. You know, for once?

"Don't you think it might have just been a normal dog?" John called out. Sure, it bore resemblance to the hallucinations, but they were over. Sherlock is rarely ever wrong (only very, very occasionally) and the doctor doubts he's gotten the case wrong this time. His words, surprisingly, made Sherlock come to an abrupt halt.

"Yes, you're right, what was I thinking? Mystery solved. Yes, now, let's go. We're going to miss the train, John!"

John shook his head and smiled as Sherlock turned sharply and made his way back to the town. Sherlock must have seriously gotten a fright from the whole thing if this was affecting him this way. He knew he shouldn't revel in Sherlock's obvious unease, but he couldn't help but smile at how human it made the self-proclaimed sociopath. He turned, only to realize that Sherlock had gotten far ahead of him, and quickly jogged to catch up.

"Wait up, Sherlock!" He called, casting a glance behind him.

The dog was gone and the incident quickly faded from his mind.

Of course, neither noticed the curious grey-eyed man who had decided to follow them away from the moor. Muggles couldn't see through disillusionment charms, after all.

* * *

A bark was what startled John Hamish Watson awake as he dozed on the train. A dog was sat at his feet, tongue lolling out cutely and head tilted. It was black and shaggy with soul-searching grey eyes and it was currently in a staring contest with an uneasy Sherlock. John couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face at the look on Sherlock's face. It was somewhere between haughtiness, disgust and worry.

"John, why is this dog staring at me?"

The huff of laughter he couldn't contain made Sherlock glare at him. He cleared his throat.

"I think it's hungry, Sherlock," the doctor managed, smiling pleasantly. The dog barked, as if in agreement, stood and turned on the spot before sitting again and barking once.

"Shoo," was Sherlock's reply as he waved a hand in the direction of the dog. It appeared that Sherlock had developed an aversion to dogs. The dog, of course, didn't move. "I don't have food, you stupid mutt. Can't you tell? Oh god, I'm talking to an animal, what is _wrong_ with me?" The detective buried his head in his hands as the black dog let out a long, mournful whine and dropped to the floor, staring at them sorrowfully behind its forepaws.

The sight tugged on John's heartstrings and he rummaged through his pockets but was only able to find a Kit Kat bar. "Well," he murmured, "Unless I want to kill it I won't be giving this to it." However, the dog quickly jumped up and snatched the chocolate treat away before running down the aisle. John jumped up after it, but the dog had somehow disappeared from the aisle.

"Don't bother, John. If the mutt is too stupid to realize chocolate will kill it, then it's not worth the trouble," the consulting detective commented, inconsiderate as always.

John blinked, shaking his head. "No, the dog, it's gone."

"Must have gone back to its owner then. Strays wouldn't be able to get on the train." Sherlock seemed wholly disinterested and John decided that it was the only feasible solution so he sat again.

He frowned a little. That dog seemed to have something more human shining in its eyes.

Sherlock, on the other hand, wondered who would keep such a dirty dog and why its eyes were grey.

They never realized that a carriage down, a shaggy black-haired man was enjoying the Kit Kat bar he had absconded with.

* * *

"Woof!"

Sherlock startled at the bark, turning his head to see a large, shaggy black dog with grey eyes staring at him. His eyes narrowed. He recognized this dog.

"You were the dog on the train. I have never seen a dog with grey eyes before..." he muttered to himself before scoffing. "Talking to a dog, again!"

A bark was his reply. Sherlock blinked at the dog, wanting to, for some reason, talk to it.

"I will be committing suicide today," he stated, kneeling down. The dog sniffed at him as he held out a hand. He was going crazy, talking to an animal, but then again he did confide in his skull, or used to before John came around. "Well, not exactly, but close enough."

The dog whined slightly before licking his palm. Sherlock grimaced but didn't pull away. "I have been discredited, my arch-enemy has managed to get the better of me," he mused out loud instead, hesitantly scratching the dog behind the ears. The dog huffed in pleasure, shuffling closer and nuzzling the tall man. Sherlock frowned, but let it come into his personal space. "I've never thought of reputation as something important, never cared to keep up appearances, so to speak..." he murmured, "And now it looks like I really should have thought more of it. Everyone thinks me a killer... except John, of course. The man's just as loyal as a dog."

The dog gave a soft whine of sorrow and Sherlock smirked.

"Don't try and act smarter than you really are, mutt. Though I suppose if you are acting, then you could be called abnormally smart for a dog..."

The dog growled before nuzzling at his hand again.

"Fine then, I won't call you 'mutt'," Sherlock grinned at the dog's apparent irritation before scowling. Where on earth did that come from?

The dog barked in amusement ( _amusement?_ ) at his confusion, making the dark-haired man scowl further and pull away.

"Well, I suppose this is goodbye, though I've no idea why I'd bid farewell to a dog... of all the ridiculous things..." Sherlock turned to walk away, but a tugging at his trouser leg stopped him. He turned his head to look at the dog biting his trouser leg. The mutt was looking up at him with wide, sorrowful eyes which unnerved and delighted Sherlock all at once. He couldn't believe he thought a dog was sympathetic to his plight. It was even more unbelievable that he was actually comforted by the thought.

After a while of staring, the dog let go and gave a quiet 'woof'. Sherlock guessed that that was goodbye and turned, walking towards St. Barts hospital. He had a criminal mastermind to meet with and there was no time to be thinking about the illogicalness of the dog.

He never saw the dog turn into a man who watched him walk away with sympathy in his grey eyes.

* * *

The cemetery, Sherlock's grave, it was as deserted as ever. John was alone in his excursions here, mourning, grieving, disbelieving. Too many people were all for the Just World Hypothesis and he felt alone in his support of Sherlock, despite the many others who posted words of comfort on his blog.

It was foggy that day. Drab, damp and dull. Not to mention somewhat creepy, being in a cemetery.

Movement caught his eye and he quickly looked around, hand going for his sig. A large, black mass was moving there, in the fog, coming towards him. It padded soundlessly across the grass, getting closer, larger. John whipped out his gun, pointing it at the dark mass. His hands were trembling slightly. It was a... a hound.

It brought back memories... Memories of a hound and Sherlock drugging him, attempting to drug him, and the scientific experiments... Hallucinations and frustrations.

His eyes closed for a moment at the feeling of half-closed wounds opening back up, but a bark brought his attention to the present again. A large, shaggy black dog with familiar grey eyes. Where had he seen it before...? Oh yes, on the train, where it stole a Kit Kat bar. Or, at least, he thought it's the same one. The one that got into a staring contest... with Sherlock.

He knelt down as he dog tilted its head cutely at him, tongue lolling out just like on that train.

"I guess you didn't eat the chocolate then, since you're not dead," John murmured, reaching a hand out to pet the dog. The dog nuzzled closer while giving John a look. Like those looks Sherlock gave people when he felt they were being stupid. _God_ , John thought, shaking his head, _I'm comparing Sherlock to a dog now_. "So how've you been?"

The dog barked and panted happily as John scratched it behind the ear.

"Good, huh? So, I guess... Sherlock was wrong about you. You are a stray."

Another bark in what seemed like affirmation.

John chuckled. "He wasn't wrong often..." His smile slipped from his face. The dog nuzzled him and whined, looking at him with sad, understanding eyes. John smiled. "Well, thanks for trying to comfort me. You sure are one smart dog." The dog gave a huff and tossed its head proudly.

He thought of his therapist who had said a pet might just do him good.

"You want food, boy?" John asked, scratching the dog behind the ears again. The dog barked happily. "Come on, then." The doctor wasn't sure why, but he felt like the dog understood him and would follow. And follow it did.

A month later, John had fully settled into life with the dog. However, the dog had rejected every name he came up with so far, sniffing disdainfully or growling whenever he suggested something. John had washed it, – him – the dog being surprisingly obedient. He had gotten the dog groomed and fed and watered and he seemed to really like John. The company made him a lot less lonely.

Sometimes, he'd ramble to the dog as if it understood him.

About Sherlock.

About cases.

About his life in general.

The dog would listen attentively.

"What about Wishthound?" John asked one day out of the blue. The dog certainly reminded him of a Wishthound from the legends with its black fur and pale eyes and once-upon-a-time emaciated frame. The dog tilted its head before huffing. Not good enough, eh? This dog certainly had high standards. But it was a better reaction than he had gotten from the rest. He looked up alternate named for the Wishthounds. "Striker?" No. "Barguist?" Nope. "Barguest?" No way. "Um, Jack?" Are you crazy? "Padfoot?"

The dog jumped up with a delighted bark, apparently satisfied.

John chuckled, now well used to the dog's – Padfoot's – seemingly human intelligence. "Looks like you really like that name. Does it mean anything special to you?"

Padfoot barked. John wasn't really sure what it meant, but he took it as a yes.

"Was it the name you were given by your previous owner?" Because if the name meant something, it must have been given to him by its previous owner. A dog can't name itself. Can it?

Another bark.

Of course not.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't dead. He wasn't dead. John couldn't believe it. Well, he could, the proof was right there before his eyes.

He was furious.

Absolutely furious.

Two entire years of believing Sherlock dead, of grieving, of accepting and moving on.

Padfoot jumped up when John entered the flat, padding over on silent feet and whining in curiosity. His head was tilted cutely and John felt himself deflate a little at the sight, calming down. He smiled at the dog. Padfoot had been a great companion while Sherlock was... absent. Padfoot had even helped play matchmaker (somehow) for him and Mary. The dog had easily won Mary over with his wide grey eyes and adorable habbits.

Padfoot was an amazing dog and John couldn't find it in him to stay angry in Padfoot's presence.

"Let's go for a walk, yeah, boy?" John asked, ruffling Padfoot's fur. Padfoot barked in excited agreement, trotting over to where his leash was kept and handing the leash to John to clip onto his collar.

Padfoot was an amazingly well-behaved dog and walking Padfoot would probably calm him.

It was a pleasant day to be taking a walk. The sky was blue and the sun was up. A rarity, really, to have so little clouds in the sky. It wasn't exactly warm, what with being in November, but not as cold as it could've been. Padfoot trotted ahead of John, occasionally sniffing at things he found interesting.

Suddenly, Padfoot froze, ears perking up and, at the same time, John felt movement from behind him. He dodged out of the way from the man that had attacked him with bat. Padfoot growled and leaped, but a bang sounded and the dog fell to the ground, shot.

"Padf-!" John didn't even get to finish the concerned cry as someone grabbed him from behind and covered his nose with a cloth. He struggled, but was unable to get free as two others came and helped grab him.

His vision faded to black with the sounds of Padfoot whimpering weakly in the background.

* * *

He could feel his blood draining from his body. Damn were muggles deadly. He couldn't even transform, being in so much pain. Not that he would have been able to heal himself, anyways, since he had stored his wand away in a secure place.

He whimpered pathetically. After only meeting his beloved godson a few times, he had been cruelly ripped away from him and now, after finding a companion like John Waston and coming to like the man's company, he would once again be taken from what mattered to him. This time, by death.

Was all the good in his life destined to end painfully and terribly?

Azkaban flashed through his mind. The First Wizarding War came next. His duel with Bellatrix and the freezing sensation of going through the veil was after that. He had woken up in a town and, after blending in, he had heard of stories of a Black Dog terrorizing the place. Or well, attracting attention to the place. And then he had seen Sherlock Holmes and John Watson who had apparently solved the mystery of the hound. He had heard of someone talking about their exploits with glee and gotten curious, following them to London.

It was there that he found out that the Wizarding World didn't exist. Lost and confused, he had wandered around as a stray, staying away from people, who'd probably take him to the pound. He read discarded newspapers and found out more about Holmes and Watson. The more he read, the more he sympathised. They were like him and Harry, in a way. More Harry than him and more Holmes than Watson. Names dragged through the mud, despite only ever helping others. Sure, they were a bit odd, Holmes especially, but not as odd as some wizards and witches.

And this Moriarty guy, Richard Brooke, whoever. It was like people didn't want him to exist so they just went and blamed Holmes for it all.  
At least they weren't as bad as the Wizarding World in their blind beliefs.

Then he had actually had a conversation with Holmes (sort of) and then developed a bond with Watson – John. He had been content, happy even. And now it was all going to be ripped away again. Just like James and Remus and Lilly were ripped away from him. Just like Harry.

His sight was dimming and his last thought was of Harry, the godson he never got a proper chance to know.

 _Harry..._

" _ **Sirius**_!"

* * *

 ** _Fin...?_**


	2. Departure

**_So, originally this was a oneshot, but I thought it cruel to leave it there. So now its a threeshot. Enjoy! The last chapter is coming soon._**

* * *

 _ **Departure**_

* * *

The Death Chamber was as deserted as always. The air was cold and stale, the veil fluttering in a nonexistent wind. Death whispered words in his ears and he knew that the veil was not a one way trip to Death's twilight kingdom*. The voices there were the voices of those on the other side, whispers from beings not of this world. The only reason he and Luna could hear so clearly was because they had an intimate relationship with other worlds. Luna, with the world of the future and alternate planes, and Harry because he was the chosen of Death.

It was an easy decision to make, going through the veil. Death hissed at him to try because he might find what he was missing most. Because in another world, he might get the chance to have all that he wanted. He would always be Death's favoured, but if he passed through he could be happy and live normally, die normally.

Isn't that all he wanted? Death wanted nothing but the best for him, never pushed him. Death rasped information and facts and suggestions, his voice never rising above a whisper, always as toneless as wind in dried grass. Yet, under that hollow voice, there was fondness, curiosity and something else. Sympathy, perhaps?

 _Your godfather. I could take you to him. He is on the verge of death_ , Death rasped, intangible and wisp-like next to his body.

Harry sucked in a breath of surprise. Sirius. He had to make a decision now or Sirius would be gone. It was easy. He had nothing left to live for here, after all. He didn't age, while everyone else did. He didn't, couldn't, move on. Not without this.

 _Gold is valuable. Pack your gold_ , Death had told him, _Your gold, your wand, your cloak and your stone. You need nothing more. I shall guide you._

So here he was, in front of the veil with a trunk full of gold. The rest, he had asked the goblins to give to his friends and family. The Elder Wand sat in his pocket, peaceful, and never to start another bloody conflict again. The cloak settled on his shoulders, rendering him invisible to the world. The stone was heavy and cool in his hands, no longer cracked.

Harry turned the onyx stone thrice, closing his eyes.

 _Go on, my son. We may not be able to pass over with you, but Death spans all kingdoms and we shall meet again one day_ , Lily urged, eyes loving.

 _We shall forever be behind you, Harry. We will always support you_ , James added, grinning.

 _You deserve your peace, Harry, and if this is how you can achieve it, so be it_ , Remus told him, gentle and kind as always.

 _If it makes any difference, Harry, I apologize. My actions destroyed the peace in your life. You have the right to do whatever you wish. Don't let me or anyone else hold you back. It's the next great adventure, after all_ , Dumbledore encouraged, sorrowful but smiling.

Then Harry looked to the last person and his breath caught. "But you're not dead, right? Why… Why can you come to me now, and how did you come to me back in the forest? How did you die? Are you already gone? Do I not make it in time?" His tone was worried and he frowned at the spectre.

Sirius grinned back at him. _Sorry, kiddo, that's confidential. I can't give away your future. Death is timeless though, especially when crossing from one world to another. Now go out there and live your life the way you want to. Carpe Diem and all that, right? Let me tell you this though: you and I are going to be so epic together!_

Harry grinned back, reassured, and walked forwards, into the veil.

* * *

He hated magical travel. And now he had one to top the list of Ways I Hate Travelling The Most.

The veil was number one, no doubt.

At first, it was okay. It was like losing all feeling and just becoming numb to everything. But then, it was like being stuffed into a washing machine and going for a couple of rounds before being spat out so abruptly because you could suddenly feel again. It was jarring and uncomfortable in the most unexplainable of ways. He had to take a moment to just breathe before he could orient himself enough to stand up. He grabbed his trunk, which was right beside him and was glad for the feather-light charm on it. There was no one else around him, no one he could see at least.

The whispers of Death were absent for a moment before steadily increasing in volume again until he could hear the words clearly.

 _That way, my Master, can you feel the pull?_

Harry could feel the pull. A slight tugging sensation that he knew, instinctively would lead him to Sirius. It was getting stronger the more Sirius' lifeforce faded and Harry quickly took off at a run.

He was the alleyways of wherever this place was and the alleyways swerved and twisted, but the pull seemed to know which ways to go, like some sort of magical GPS system.

A few homeless people looked up curiously as he ran by, but he was otherwise ignored.

It took a while to get out, but the pull eventually led him to a deserted road. He looked around, unable to see Sirius in the dim light of twilight, until a whimper caught his attention.

 _There!_

A black mass on the ground, trembling and bleeding. Harry's expression turned horrified as he took in the damage done to Sirius. He pull was urgent now, telling him to hurry, hurry, or else Sirius would die. He sprinted to the fallen canine, Sirius' name on his lips.

" _ **Sirius!**_ "

* * *

Sirius had lost a lot of blood, but he was now stable. He probably wouldn't wake up for a while. Under Death's guidance, Harry had managed to retrieve the bullet and heal up the most fatal part of the wound, but anything more superficial would have to be taken care of by a hospital. The abilities he had gained as Death's master only helped him stabilize people and bring them back from the edge of precipice called death, not heal all the smaller injuries.

It had given him the time to sell some of his gold galleons to pay for a trip to the hospital, only after using his wand to coax Sirius back into human form though. Unfortunately, he didn't know all that much healing magic.

Now, however, he had to go and find them permanent living arrangements as well as identification. He had managed to fool the hospital staff with a _confoundus_ , but that wouldn't always work. And even if Sirius could stay as a dog, he couldn't stay that way forever; he had already been admitted to the hospital as a human, never mind the effect it might have on his mind.

Luckily, Harry had magic on his side. He used it to give them birth certificates, IDs, Passports, citizenships, emancipation papers (he was documented as being sixteen in this world and looked the part despite living for thirty five years), etc.. Death, of course, talked him through it since Harry didn't actually know how to do it. If anyone found any problems with it, well, they'd cross that bridge when they get there, but _confoundus_ charms were good, as were memory charms. Harry did feel a little guilty about using them on unsuspecting muggles, but the lack of a magical world and therefore magical law enforcement was a big decider for him.

He sold the rest of his galleons steadily over the next two months, depositing the majority of the money in his newly opened bank account. He had enough to last him and Sirius quite a while, twenty years or so with money set aside for schooling, not including interest, after buying a nice flat in central London. Renovations would have to be made, but with a little magic it should go perfectly. He did not want a house in the suburbs nor did he want a house where everything was overly peaceful and isolated. Though he would like a normal life, he would also like a life with a social life. He didn't want to live in a place like the Dursleys had either.

He would have to get a job eventually, of course, but he needed to finish his education first. He hadn't been able to start his education since he was too busy catching up on recent events. (Something about a Sherlock Holmes who had returned from dead with his name cleared after two years of being discredited was the most interesting. It reminded him of himself)

Now, all he needed was for Sirius to wake up.

* * *

Harry had been pushing life magic into Sirius for about an hour a day for two months before the older man woke up. Harry was, of course, at his side immediately after hearing the soft groan.

"Sirius, you've woken up!" he cheered, quietly. Death had gone silent by his ear, not wanting to disturb the moment.

"H-Harry…?" was the first thing out of the older man's mouth as he blinked rapidly and turned his head to look at Harry.

"That's right, Sirius. I'm here."

Sirius groaned again, closing his eyes tightly before opening them again. "Did I die?" he rasped.

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Of course not. You're in a hospital right now Sirius."

"Right, if I had died my head wouldn't hurt like this," the animagus decided. He blinked again, staring at Harry for a moment, not seeming to full realize the implications of such a sight. Then he shot up, eyes wide, with a cry of Harry's name. Of course, he groaned in pain immediately after and slumped back down. "Ow, my head…"

Harry was torn between frantically worrying and laughing. Should Sirius be so energetic after just waking up from a two month long coma induced by excessive blood loss?

 _He shall be fine. It is thanks to what you have been doing that he can be this healthy this quickly_ , Death reassured.

"Take it easy, Sirius. You've only just woke up from a two month long coma. You lost a lot of blood," Harry informed the other with a soft smile.

"Oh, well that makes sense…" Sirius frowned for a moment before his eyes went wide again. He sat up, slower this time and looked at Harry, really looked. "Oh Merlin," came the whisper of awe, "Harry."

"Hey, Sirius," Harry replied with a grin, accepting a sudden hug from his godfather.

"H-Harry!" Sirius squeezed him before letting him go and holding him by te shoulders. Grey eyes drank in every detail they could. "How…?"

"Well, Sirius, the answer to that is a long, long story," Harry replied to the unfinished question with a smile.

Sirius cracked his own grin. "I'm sure we have time."

* * *

Sirius was pretty shaken and shocked a Harry's tale. Harry had told him about becoming the Master of Death, about not being able to age, about Death whispering into his ear and telling him that the veil was no portal to his kingdom, about how Harry had made the decision to come and leave behind his belongings to his friends and family, about finding him. It was a while before Sirius responded, and when he did, it was pretty unexpected.

"Harry!" Sirius had suddenly burst out with, startling the younger man. "When you got there, did you see a short man with blonde hair and a moustache?" His expression was serious – excuse the pun – and his eyes intense.

Harry blinked once before shaking his head. "No, sorry, Sirius."

Sirius sighed and frowned. "I can't believe I forgot about that." He glanced at Harry. "I found a, well, owner – don't laugh, Harry, I can tell you are – and he was taking me for a walk. Yes, a walk, don't look at me like that… Then we were attacked, I was shot, but, obviously, he was the target."

Harry's expression had changed from hiding a grin to solemn and frowning. "So, he was taken?"

"Probably, I blacked out not soon after…" Sirius murmured quietly, worried.

"We'll go and see if he's okay once you're okay Sirius."  
Sirius looked up with wild, wide eyes. "But if he's not, it'd be my fault! I was there and tried to protect him and-"

"And got shot for it," Harry interrupted firmly, "It's not your fault, just as it isn't his fault that you were shot. While you're here feeling guilty, he must be feeling even worse since it was due to him you were shot. Blaming yourself isn't going to help, Sirius. I've done it to myself enough times to know."

Sirius sighed and looked down. "Yeah, I suppose you're right, Harry," he conceded before looking up at Harry with wide, imploring eyes. "Can we get out of here though, please? I hate being trapped here!"

Harry chuckled. "You've only been here one day Sirius, well, awake, that is."

"It's already bo-ring!" Sirius huffed, pouting.

Harry grinned. "Just like me then. Why don't you tell me what you've been up to?"

Sirius' eyes lit up and he began to recount his tale…

* * *

That night, Harry and Sirius checked themselves out, Sirius having persuaded Harry to do a few memory and _confoudnus_ charms. The first thing Sirius did was get a newspaper and breath a sigh of relief when he saw John and Sherlock on it, not dead and having done something amazing again. They retrieved Sirius' wand, which was buried under an oak tree which Sirius had, um, scent marked repeatedly. Sirius dug it out and happily carried it in his jaws to Harry's amusement and disgust. Harry then led Sirius to their new flat in central London, to which Sirius expressed his approval.

"Nice," the animagus commented, "It's very homely"

"You should thank the interior designers I hired. I had no part in the designing of this," Harry scratched the back of his head. "I'm not all that artsy. I only gave basic requirements, but, yeah, they did great."

When Harry had first taken a look, the flat was barren and dull. Harry chose it because it had two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen. It wasn't too big, but had enough space for furniture and free movement and, last but not least, a dog. The fireplace was the deal breaker though. Also, despite being a three-storey flat, Harry had bought the entire thing, therefore it was just them there for the moment. Harry was thinking of renting out two floors for a lowered price to university students or something.

"Well, it's great anyhow," Sirius reaffirmed. "What was the address again?"

"239 Baker Street*."

Sirius frowned, wondering why it seemed familiar. Then it hit him. His eyes widened. Baker Street. That was where Holmes and John lived! They lived at 221B though and John had moved out after Sherlock's 'death', but he suspected that Sherlock would've moved back in by now. After all, it was his flat and he wasn't dead. Sirius grinned and turned around, grabbing onto Harry's shoulders.

"Holmes lives near doesn't he?"

Harry experienced a moment of confusion before it cleared up. He smiled, still a little befuddled at Sirius' reaction. Oh god, being here hadn't turned him into some sort of fanboy, had it? "Well, yeah, I think so. He's the detective guy who came back to life, right?"

Sirius nodded enthusiastically. "Yup, that's right! And guess who I stayed with as a dog!"

"Um, Holmes?" Harry guessed, slightly overwhelmed at Sirius' behaviour.

"Nope! John Watson!"

"And… that is…?"

"Holmes' BFF of course!"

Harry paused to examine Sirius' excited and hopeful face before answering.

"Like, Best Friends Forever?"

"Yes! Let's go visit!" Sirius turned to run out, but Harry quickly stopped him, seeing a flaw in his reckless behaviour. Of course, Harry was pretty reckless as well, often not seeing the flaws in his plans (when he had one), but he could see this one as a bystander.

"Sirius, wait!" he called, "Why do you want to go so eagerly?"

The older man turned back, almost vibrating with nervous anticipation. "Oh, well, he was the guy I wanted to check up on. You know, I told you about him in the hospital."

"Oh, well, shouldn't you visit him as a dog then? He wouldn't recognize you as a human."

Sirius froze and then deflated and sulked as he stomped back to the sofa. "Never thought about that. It's not like I can just walk up there, ring the doorbell and go, 'hi, remember that dog you met on the train and then talked to before you went and committed suicide? Yeah, that was me!'"

Harry grinned. "What I wouldn't give to see the look on his face if you did. Don't worry, We'll find a way." Sirius suddenly smirked, which made alarm bells ring in Harry's head. Having heard of Sirius' exploits in school as a part of the Marauders, he knew that the mischief in that smirk couldn't bode well. He eyed Sirius carefully. "What are you scheming…?"

Sirius leaned forwards on the sofa, steepling his hands in front of him. "You know how there's no Ministry of Magic here, yes?"

Harry nodded, settling a narrow-eyed gaze on the other.

"Well…"

* * *

*Death's twilight kindom is a reference to the poem, _The Hollow Men_.

*239 Baker Street is the location of the Sherlock Holmes Museum.


	3. Finale

**_AN: I apologize for being a bit late, rl is just... Man, I don't even know anymore... I don't really like this chapter, but, well..._**

* * *

 ** _Finale_**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was bored. He had been hoping that after The Moriarty Scare, as they were now calling it, he would have something to do. However, Moriarty hadn't appeared as of yet and Graham – sorry, Gregory – didn't have any interesting cases for him. And he admits it, yes he's pouting. Though he was happy that John visited him often, John also had the annoying habit of telling him stories about his more-than-likely deceased pet dog when Mary wasn't there to accompany him. It was even more annoying when John kept comparing the dog to him, especially when talking about its eerie intelligence, which Sherlock did NOT appreciate. He was rather insulted when John first compared his and the mutt's intelligence.

He cursed loudly and uncharacteristically, wishing he had John's gun so he could make Mr. Yellow Smiley Face a friend.

His head hit the sofa with a muffled _thump_. Usually, he'd do an experiment or compose something on his violin to alleviate his boredom, but he was feeling particularly low today and didn't even want to move. All he wanted was a good case to get his spirits up.

His phone beeped and his eyes moved to glare at it when it didn't stop after the first few seconds. He wasn't sure what made him get the call, boredom probably, but he was sure glad he picked up. It meant that he was no longer bored, at any rate.

* * *

"It's not only incredibly baffling, but it's unbelievable, too. I mean, who would steal sixty toilets seats, a plastic scythe, a whole lot of cloth, a giant stag model, a paper mache rat, a rocking horse, a werewolf costume and a hellhound carved out of stone?" Greg complained to Sherlock as the consulting detective examined the restroom which was missing toilet seats. "Of course, usually, we'd never get assigned to any case like this, but… This is just weird.

"Sixty toilet seats from a variety of public places all across London, a giant stag model from the British Natural History Museum, a giant paper mache rat and rocking horse from the houses of two wealthy citizens, a werewolf costume from a costume shop, a giant portion of expensive black cloth from a very reputable cloth shop, a gigantic plastic scythe from a toy store, and a 'hellhound' carved out of stone from a shop which sells garden statues…" Sherlock murmured to himself. "All disappearing last night within ten minutes of each other, from places with surveillance cameras that short-circuited during the scarce minute it took to steal the items…"

"How can you be so sure they were all stolen by the same person?" John asked, feeling awkward as he watched his friend snoop around. It was rather obvious as to why: they were in the women's bathroom of a museum.

"Well…" Greg drawled walking towards the last cubicle, "It's probably because of this." He opened the door and pointed, catching the attention of their resident consulting detective. Sherlock was over there in a flurry and he raised an eyebrow at the wall. Behind the toilet was the lifelike painting of a black, shaggy dog with piercing grey eyes. The dog was sat on its haunches, grinning doggy-ly at them. In the back ground was a graveyard…

The graveyard where 'Sherlock' had been buried.

"Padfoot."

"What was that, John?" Sherlock asked absently, getting closer to the picture and pressing a finger to the painting. He sniffed at his finger and frowned. It was almost like the colours of the tile that made up the wall had just changed. There was not a hint of paint or anything covering the tiles. There wasn't a trace of anyone having been here, either, except for the person who had discovered the theft. The thieves had covered their tracks well.

"It looks exactly like Padfoot," John gasped out in shock. "Just like the scene when we first met."

Sherlock turned to look at his companion in slight surprise. "Do all of the… crime scenes," he hesitated a little as he said the words. Stealing toilet seats was weird, but not interesting and certainly wasn't much of a crime. Sherlock had thought this would be a boring and odd case, but had come nonetheless after Lestrade had told him about the lack of evidence. It was proving to be more than interesting now though. "Have these pictures?"

"Yes, which is why we thought they were done by a group of people working together. None of them were stolen at the same time, but from the timing, it would've been impossible for only one or two people to have done it. Otherwise they would've had to have gotten halfway across London in less than ten minutes," Greg replied. "So? What've you got?"

Sherlock's lip curled upwards in a half-grimace, half-smile. His answer was hesitant and reluctant, but impressed. "Nothing. These thieves were surprisingly thorough. There're no signs of tampering. Anywhere. It's almost as if those toilet seats decided to take a walk. No, not take a walk. It was as if they just disappeared into thin air. And this picture… There's no sign of the tiles being changed. As if the original colour of the tiles were at it is now. That doesn't make sense…" The rest of his words were incoherent murmurs.

John frowned.

* * *

Harry was perplexed and exhausted and completely and absolutely irritated.

"Sirius?"

"Yes, Harry?"

Sirius was giddy and his giddiness was starting to become _extremely_ annoying. And extremely weird. They were sitting in the middle of sixty toilet seats, a paper mache rat, a model of a stag, a rocking horse with a werewolf costume on it, and a hellhound statue.

Now, Harry didn't usually swear. In fact, he had never really said anything beyond 'hell' or 'crap' or one of those weird wizarding swears that sounded disgustingly bizzare to his then muggle ears. But the f word seemed to be perfect for this situation.

"What the fuck is all of this for, exactly?" he asked.

Sirius merely grinned back at him as they approached the parliament building.

"We are making our master piece!"

And then, ten minutes later, Harry regretted going along with Sirius as they stood in front of a twenty foot tall monument of toilet seats placed in a manner to look vaguely like a human being, a stag, a werewolf and hellhound with a rat crushed under the pile, held together by magic and superglue.

"Wait," Harry suddenly piped up, after a moment of Sirius' proud staring at the monument. "Do I not get to be a part of… this?" He gestured vaguely at the masterpiece.

Sirius turned with a somewhat unnerving smile. "Of course you do!" Harry instantly had a bad feeling about it all.

…

He was not impressed when, a minute later, the toilet seat-person thing gained a black cloak and a giant plastic scythe.

Sirius was very, _very_ proud and cheerful.

"Yeah, laugh it up Sirius."

* * *

Sherlock was agitated and confused and utterly obsessed, which did not bode well for John's sanity. The pacing of his flatmate was grating on John's nerves, especially after seeing different scenes of Padfoot at each scene that reflected a moment of John's experience with Padfoot. Padfoot on a train, Padfoot in a new dog bed, Padfoot knocking over a vase, Padfoot on the roof, Padfoot on the Eifel Tower, Padfoot on a treadmill, Padfoot at Mycroft's gentleman's club, Padfoot in a field, and Padfoot in an alleyway (he wasn't sure where the last two came from but Sherlock seemed to have reacted to that). He and Padfoot truly had a deep connection, even across species.

Now, John, who usually had an infinite well of patience for dealing with Sherlock, was at the end of his fuse and about to yell at Sherlock to just stop when Mrs. Hudson burst in and told them that DI Lestrade was here.

"Sherlock, John," the detective inspector began, hesitant, "We've, ah, found the missing items.

Sherlock and John looked at each other and immediately followed as Lestrade walked back dwn the stairs.

* * *

John had the pleasure of seeing Sherlock's face contort into a mixture of shock, confusion and relectant admiration. He was pretty sure he wasn't much better though, seeing the addition that had been made to the house of parliament. There, on its roof, stood what looked to be a grim reaper made of toilet seats, a stag, a hellhound and a werewolf all crushing a rat. On the side of the building were the words: " _All hail Messers Padfoot and Thanatos, the new generation of Marauders!_ " in bright, eye-blinding gold and red. A pawprint was next to that in deep gold paint.

"This is… new," John commented, pondering on the coincidences that more than likely weren't coincidences God, Padfoot, what on Earth had the trouble-magnet dog got himself caught up in this time? A whole lot of mischief, John would bet.

"We managed to get fingerprints though, from the, um, toilet seats," Lestrade cut in hesitantly. "But we still have no idea who the… perpetrators are."

"Fingerprints?" Sherlock questioned, incredulous.

"Yes, they were all over the stolen items as well as this note."

Sherlock frowned as Lestrade pointed to a slip of paper pinned next to the bright words.

" _Isn't this beautiful?_ " Was all that was written on the slip of paper. There was some dirt and other odd stains on it, too, though.

"They want to be found," Sherlock concluded, "They're leaving us hints. I'll be needing this." With that, he grabbed the paper with a pair of tweezers and placed it into a plastic bag before striding away from the scene. John blinked and quickly hurried after the other.

"Sherlock, wait up!"

* * *

"And we couldn't have done this in a normal way, like, going to visit them as neighbors or something?" Harry hissed.

Sirius grinned and shrugged. "This is more fun. And, well, we're inviting them over for dinner, aren't we?"

"What if they get the authorities involved?"

"There are compulsions on the invite. Don't worry!"  
"… We really need magical law enforcement in any world with you. Compulsions are illegal!"

"So?"

* * *

" _Dear John Waston and Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. You are cordially invited to dinner at six PM today at 239 Baker Street with Messers Padfoot and Thanatos. We hope you accept._

 _P. S. Bring Mary, too!_ "

John blinked down, baffled, at the words on the piece of paper. Where the hell did this come from? He looked towards Sherlock who was performing a series of experiments on the slip of paper they had brought home. He had been at it for two days already, but he couldn't seem to find what he was looking for in the slip of paper.

This new slip was exactly the same as the one Sherlock had, down to every stain, just with different words

"Sherlock, where did this come from?" John asked. The other gave a noncommittal response. "Sherlock, we're going to 239 Baker Street to have dinner, okay?" Another noncommittal reply. "I'll interpret that as a yes!"

So they could finally get some questions answered. He didn't think it would be dangerous, and there was no reason to inform the police. These two seemed more interesting in causing chaos in the form of pranks, if the monument had anything to say about that. The artwork, if it could be called that, had disappeared the day following its discovery and news broadcast.

John was just more interested in finding out what the hell Padfoot had to do with any of this.

* * *

Six PM found an exasperated John, a confused Mary and a sulky Sherlock in front of the door of 239 Baker Street.

"Why are we here John?" Sherlock asked. "I could be-"

"Working on that piece of paper that will yield no results, Sherlock," John cut in, "And you agreed to this."

"When?!"

John ignored him. If Sherlock didn't pay attention, it wasn't John's fault.

"Is this about Padfoot, John?" Mary asked softly. "I saw what happened on the news. It was very… creative and odd, to say the least." Mary was eramoured with Padfoot, but didn't understand the depth of the connection that was between Padfoot and John. She had hoped he would get over Padfoot's inevitable death.

"This is about the case?" Sherlock perked up again. John just shoved the invite at him, too on edge to reply in fear that he might snap. He lifted the knocker and knocked.

The door opened not long after to reveal a smallish teenager with black hair and green eyes, who blinked before smiling. "Oh, good, you're here. Six PM on the dot. You must be John Waston, Sherlock Holmes and Mary Waston, then," the teen said, opening the door wider in welcome. "Come in! And don't worry, it's not booby trapped or anything ridiculous like that." His eyes sparked with a sort of humour that made John wary. "I'm Harry Potter, by the way. Paddy is inside."

"Paddy?" John asked. That sounded really close to Padfoot.

"Yeah, Sirius Black, my godfather," Harry explained and John deflated a little.

"And you two are… Messers Padfoot and Thanatos?" Mary chipped in, seeing John's deflated state.

Harry's eyes glinted and he grinned back at them. "How'd you like our masterpiece?"

"Loved it," Mary replied without hesitation, a look of almost maniac amusement on her face. "You have to tell me how you did it without leaving a shred of evidence!" John and Sherlock (despite his stunted understanding of social cues and emotions, he could still tell when danger he did not like was coming for him) both had the sudden urge to move far, far away from her. That look in her eyes did not bode well. Who knew that John's wife was not only an ex-assassin, but also a closet prankster?

Then again, John mused, her initial reaction to Sherlock was far from normal, too.

A bark caught his attention and John looked up only to see…

"Padfoot!"

The black dog barked eagerly, bounded over and tackled John down, licking him over the face. John laughed joyously. "Down boy!" Padfoot retreated to let the ex-soldier up. "You're okay!" Padfoot barked as if in agreement then trotted over to Mary to get petted.

"So this is where you were. We thought you had… Well…" the only woman in the room bent down to pet the eager dog and Padfoot barked with excitement.

"So…" Sherlock drawled, a little uncomfortable with the goings on. "You and your godfather… who is…?"

"Right here!"

And just about everyone fell over in shock when a man who looked startlingly alike to Padfoot suddenly appeared in Padfoot's place.

Harry just facepalmed.

* * *

 _My dog can turn into a human._

Two hours of simple explanations later over dinner left John with just that one thought in his head. Mary and Sherlock had taken the 'big reveal' surprisingly well. Sherlock looked smug at knowing something his brother would never be privy to and Mary was chatting happily with Harry about magic, looking somewhat awed and somewhat shocked. Harry seemed a little awkward, but eager to tell the other all he knew. They had to be sworn to secrecy though.

 _No, that's not quite right._

Sirius sat opposite to him with a wide grin. He had just finished telling them about going through a portal and having magic and coming from another dimension. He also explained why he placed the art piece on the building of parliament. They had been disbelieving until shown some magic. Sherlock had pressed for scientific details and looked disturbingly like he wanted to cut Sirius open to see how he worked. Unfortunately, there wasn't much that they knew about the scientific side of magic and Sherlock had sulked until Harry said something about only them knowing and offered to tell them everything he knew about magic.

 _My dog is a human who can turn into a dog._

So this explained why Padfoot had seemed so… human and also why the two left no evidence after stealing what they needed. John opened his mouth to say something, breaking out of his shock and Sirius perked up.

"And you couldn't have told me all this without the giant statue on the building of parliament?"

Sirius looked sheepish and all John knew was that he would never ever find anything to do with Sherlock weird again, ever.

Life with Sherlock… that was _normality_.


End file.
